


Quiet Now

by upottery



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M, hidden blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upottery/pseuds/upottery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether or not he has ever been more aware of his own happiness is questionable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Now

**Author's Note:**

> for my friend emily over at my [tumblr](http://passtheammunition.tumblr.com). hope you like my crazy run on sentences.

There never was a time like this, where his blush reaches up like a disease, a plague with probing fingers, red and warm and familiar, but also unrestrained. It starts at his chest, like wildfire; the kind that sets the trees ablaze in minutes, dry and cracked and weary bark, teeth clenched and snapping like twigs under the weight of the debris. His palms are found above it all, warred and worn, a thousand parts of a gun had been held between his fingers, in life and in death the same purpose, methodically yet passionate, torn as he is now, lips swollen from his own volition, pleasurable more than anything. His love is a gilded wheat field in the Midwest, ready for harvesting because the hills now are high enough to block out the sun.

His sickle is bent at the knees in front of him, threshing from him the ingrained gasps, brought about the hard way, the patience of a thousand saints up to this. Trust like the sheen of sweat that veils both of them, they only way they’ll ever be beneath a veil, anyway, because he is being dredged from the sludge of blood and the ashes of war, bullet casings that hold every little part of his soul all being gathered and tasted. He is not being worshipped, no, he is being shown the netting that is below the high wire. 

He remembers sipping at a coffee earlier today, gazing and being seen, everything in him itching to show what he is and what he’ll never be. Now, after a shared bed and a refused bottle of whiskey, in sickness and in the ripped flesh of death, in king and in lionhearted bravery, he is not alone. He is not a myth for the consumption of bitter mouths; he is no longer held in high and low regard, not here. Not here where everything smells like the combination of skin, unbridled and honest, natural and wanting, all that is wrong and right in the world today not weighing on him, not possible whenever he is suffocated by his own love.

He is gripped by it all suddenly, held in its arms, and he is grounded and not, brought above reality and its trivial complications that history books are guaranteed not to forget, but he will, just for now, as he is breathing, and his lips are being claimed by all that he does cherish. Whether or not he has ever been more aware of his own happiness is questionable.

He pauses his own thinking, choosing instead to feel with his rough fingertips, sliding and no longer feeling cold metal, but responsive skin, earnest and welcoming, and he will refuse to leave even if God himself tries to heave him away with promises of glory in heaven, because he loves not with his words, but with his hands. 

He had long thought he would only find purpose in death.


End file.
